Of Midnight Marriages and Impeccable Style
by Aerileigh
Summary: When Ginny Weasley comes knocking on Draco Malfoy's door at two in the godforsaken morning, he is entertained. When ancient dark curses rear their ugly heads at three? Not so much.


**A/N:** This was written for Ann (MemoriesFade) in The DG Forum's fic exchange in 2009, in which it won entirely too many undeserved awards. It has since been scrubbed and polished by the lovely Gidge and the indefatigable Lia, and I blame any remaining mistakes on the lateness of the hour and my own weary mind.

I do hope you enjoy.

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Draco was not delighted by the pounding on the door of his flat—not delighted in the slightest. Hearing pounding on the door of one's flat was never a good thing, he thought, and it was particularly unwelcome at two in the goddamn morning.

Most people, upon having the door to their flat pounded upon at two in the goddamn morning, would either grouchily march to said door in their pajamas and demand to know what the fuss was about, or they would cast a silencing charm on the fucking thing and go back to sleep. Draco, however, had two things most people did not: the ability to think straight at two in the morning and an impeccable sense of style.

As he slipped into some low-slung silk pajama pants (for going shirtless was stylish, if you could claim the same flawless abs that Draco could), he contemplated who might be banging on his door at two in the morning. Work was unlikely; unless his investments in Mongolian spirit lore had tanked, there was no reason to rouse him. Or bother him at all. Ever.

He stalked to the bathroom to brush his teeth, reasoning that his parents wouldn't bother to knock. They knew how to get through the Apparition wards, and unfortunately possessed the decidedly nasty habit of appearing randomly in his bedroom.

Zabini or Nott would have Owled, he decided while washing his face, unless they were drunk, of course. Daphne—well. That would be unfortunate.

Draco ran a hand through his hair, making sure his bedhead was of the sexy variety, and readied himself for a drunken friend or a seriously ticked ex. He flung open the door, leaned on the frame, opened his mouth in preparation for the first snarky comment to roll out—and was rudely interrupted.

"Ginny Weasley, Department of Magical Artifacts," announced a petite redhead, flashing a badge in his face and marching through his door.

Draco, Merlin help him, managed to close his mouth by the time she rounded on him.

"I'm here for the express purpose of collecting a few items that the Ministry of Magic has determined to be generally dangerous for the Wizarding public and are believed to be at this location," she informed him primly, if a bit smugly.

Unlike most people, Draco was capable of linear thought in the middle of the night. However, this girl Weasley seemed capable of conquering the world at two in the goddamn morning, and Draco was going to need a moment to reckon with a force of her magnitude.

"I beg your pardon?" he drawled laconically, still leaning against the open doorframe.

"I'm here for the express—" she began, but he cut her off.

"Right. You think I have some wicked little toys tucked away." Draco smirked.

The girl Weasley stuck her hands on her hips and arched her eyebrow. "I'm sure that you do, Mr. Malfoy, but this is not the time for inappropriate jokes."

He was, admittedly, momentarily confused and had to recall what he'd said. The girl was quick, but he was easily saved.

"I'd say this hour of the night is a perfect time for all sorts of inappropriate things," he responded smoothly and, turning his back to her, sauntered toward the kitchen—fully aware of how advantageous the low-slung pajama bottoms were in this situation, and fully aware that she was noting this as well.

Oh, yes. An_ impeccable_ sense of style.

He grabbed the kettle off the stove and began filling it with water, noting that she'd followed him to stand in the doorway. He took in her appearance at a glance; the young witch was the same Ginny Weasley that Blaise had admired in school, and now that she was full grown, he could see why. A few curls escaped the loose chignon at the nap of her neck, but other than that, her appearance did nothing to betray the hour. He could admire that. And he could admire those curls.

"Tea?" he queried, finally re-acknowledging her presence as he set the kettle back on the range and flicked his wand at the pilot.

"No, thank you. I'm here on business, Mr. Malfoy."

"Draco is fine," he said with a sidelong glance.

She arched her eyebrow quizzically. Good. "I'm strictly here to retrieve those items. If you would please direct me to them?"

Draco made a noise that might have been deigned a snort if it had come from a less aristocratic nose. "I beg your pardon? You honestly expect me to—" he interrupted himself, smirking. "Is this the first raid you've ever conducted?"

She drew herself up to her whole height, which he estimated would normally reach to his chin, minus the heels. "That doesn't concern you. I'm merely asking you to cooperate nicely and obey the laws which govern you."

"Ah," Draco replied, "That's dandy then. Let me just have my cup of tea, and then I'll take you on the official secret Dark artifacts tour of my flat, hmm?"

Her brown eyes opened wide, and her hands flew back to her hips. Draco decided he rather liked this indignant streak of hers. Her hot little temper was much more entertaining than his previous girlfriend's conniving machinations.

"Excuse me, Mr. Malfoy—"

"Draco, love," he drawled, pouring hot water into a mug.

"_Mr. Malfoy_," she gritted out, her hands still jammed onto her waist, "I am here on official Ministry business. If you won't show me where you are keeping these Dark objects, then I shall find them myself." She spun on her heel (a precarious maneuver, he noted) and stalked off the way she'd come.

Draco chuckled as he waited for the tea to steep. Just what was the Ministry thinking, sending a sprite like that to "raid" his flat? Perhaps they had known he was a little bored, he mused sardonically.

Picking up his cup, he sauntered back into the living room and settled himself on the couch, reclining so that his flawless abs were at their best advantage. He studied the determined young woman who was muttering charms as she poked around in his bookcase.

"Found anything exciting?" he asked after a sip of tea. She glanced at him with a frown, and he noted smugly that her eyes wandered just a bit.

"Not yet. But I will," she announced, turning back to the shelf.

He took another sip of tea and watched her, amused. She had a delightful little habit of reaching up to the highest shelf when she could have used magic to pull things down, and Draco decided that he'd always liked pencil skirts.

By the time Ginny had gone through the bookshelf, it was approaching three in the goddamn morning, and Draco had finished his tea.

"You know, this would be much easier if you'd just show me what I'm looking for," she muttered, glaring at him with her arms crossed.

Draco scoffed. "I would, if I had any idea what you were looking for."

"The Ministry of Magic believes that there are—" she began.

"Yes, yes. Dark objects that will do all sorts of terrible things to the world at large. You've mentioned that."

Her glare verged on a ferocious pout. "Stop interrupting me!" she demanded.

Ah. She could take over the world at two in the goddamn morning, but by three her emotions started to get in the way. Very nice.

He nodded his head apologetically and motioned for her to continue. She took a deep breath and began again, "The Ministry of Magic believes that there are objects of a Dark nature hidden in your possession somewhere in this flat. Since they have been decreed dangerous for the general Wizarding public, I need to collect them." She exhaled upon finishing her little speech and looked up at him expectantly.

He smiled patronizingly. "Feel better to get all that out?" he drawled.

He saw slight shock and a hint of hurt pass across her face, followed by overt indignation. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Malfoy—"

"Draco, love."

"Stop interrupting me!" she cried, and Draco was certain that she might have stamped her foot, had she a soupcon less self-possession. "I beg your pardon," she repeated as she collected herself, giving him a pointed glance, "but I am here to do my _job_."

He threw his arms open wide, innocence reigning his expression. "I'm not stopping you."

"Fine," she said cattily, slinging one arm onto her hip. "Then I'm going to search your bedroom next."

He followed her as she marched through his flat, trailing her through the various rooms until she finally stumbled into his bedroom. (He was a Malfoy. It was a pretentiously large flat.)

She looked at him questioningly, and he nodded. "Yes, love. This would be my bedroom. Of course, I'd rather have you here under different circumstances … ."

Her glare now had a definite tinge of pout to it. Draco decided that he rather liked the way her lower lip looked so full—then she bit it, and his "rather liking" turned into deep appreciation.

"Please just show me, Draco," she complained. Her eyes shot to his as she realized her mistake.

He smirked. "Ooooh, begging in the bedroom. I hadn't thought you the type."

"_Mr. Malfoy_," she said indignantly, "show me the Dark objects."

He stepped closer, gently breaking the bubble of space she seemed so intent on maintaining. "But, love," he whispered, "I haven't got any Dark objects."

She stepped back and poked her finger into his chest. "You DO. You do, and I'm going to find them."

She turned her back on him and threw open the door to his closet, and he followed idly. The little sprite was yanking his clothes from their hangers and tossing them onto the floor.

The _impeccable_ sense of style!

"WHAT in Merlin's name are you doing?" he demanded, scooping up the hand-stitched Oxfords from the floor and quickly re-hanging them, a task that he would probably done more efficiently if it hadn't been approaching four in the goddamn morning.

"I am finding what I came for," Ginny replied, punctuating each word by throwing another shirt at him.

"Well, you didn't need to rip my bookcase apart to search it," he said spitefully.

She turned and threw a sneer his way. "Value your knickers ahead of your literature, hmm?"

Draco gaped at her for a moment. Her temper was going from endearing to troublesome, and quickly. Unfortunately, Draco's ability to think coherently at four in the goddamn morning was significantly less than at two. Still, he wasn't Draco Malfoy for nothing.

"Fine," he announced, tossing the pile of shirts in his arms onto the chaise in the corner. (Because what closet is complete without lounge space?) "I'll give you the dark objects."

She whirled on him, surprised. "Really?"

He rolled his eyes. "C'mon."

She followed him to his bureau, curious as he rummaged through the top drawer.

"You keep Dark objects in with your socks?" she asked, looking up at him suspiciously.

He glanced at her, wondering when the prim chignon had fallen out, leaving a cascade of red framing her face—and when had the top few buttons of her neat white shirt been undone?

"Um, yes," he replied, floundering as he dug distractedly among the contents of his sock drawer. It better be in here. Of course, Daphne was going to be irate when she discovered that he'd passed off her jewelry to the Ministry as a 'Dark' object, but that was her fault for leaving it there, he decided.

His fingers closed around a strand of metal, and he triumphantly lifted it from the bureau and dangled the simple diamond necklace in front of the redhead's wary face.

"Here you are, Miss Weasley. One necklace, superbly dangerous to the Wizarding public at large," he proclaimed smugly.

She frowned and withdrew her wand. "It doesn't look dangerous," she muttered suspiciously, brushing her hair away from her face as she leaned in to examine the piece.

"They never do. If they looked dangerous, that would be a dead give away. Imagine, if all of the Dark objects were obvious, you'd be out of a job, wouldn't you?"

She glanced up at him sharply before muttering a few charms at the necklace. "I can't find any Dark magic in it," she said accusingly.

He lifted his eyebrows coolly and shrugged. "It's not my fault you're incompetent."

Indignant, hurt shock filled her eyes, and he decided that he really ought to get her out of here and go back to bed before something regrettable happened. A vague memory of a Bat Bogey Hex skirted around the corners of his mind, and he had no wish to revisit it.

"Incompetent? Oh, really?" she asked, her voice climbing as she stepped closer to him until her face was inches from his. "I'm incompetent? You lounge about an enormous flat in ridiculous pajamas, spend your days deciding which investment would be 'fun', and drink tea!"

Draco was affronted, but the smidge of rational thought remaining realized that it was probably best not to remind her that his pants were the epitome of _impeccable _style, and far from ridiculous.

The two stared hard at one another, before Draco murmured, "I think you had better be going."

Ginny's fierce glare matched his. "Yes, I think I ought," she retorted, snatching the necklace.

Bright light and a shockwave of intense magnitude sent them both to the floor. The blast of white light left an acrid smell in Draco's nostrils, and the pungent taste of powerful magic made his mouth go dry. He sat up slowly, holding his head in a vain attempt to quell the ringing in his ears.

Ginny lay unmoving on the floor, glowering at him. "_What_ did you do?" she hissed, gingerly sitting up.

"Me? I didn't do anything. You're the expert in Dark objects here, are you not?" he responded cattily.

"It was your Dark object," she accused, and he realized that there was just as much fear in her voice as there was anger.

"No, it wasn't. Daphne left it here, and I thought it was just a necklace. A slightly gaudy one, but Daphne—"

"You lied to me?" Ginny shrieked. "You rotten, cowardly bastard!" She threw the words at him, attempting to stand only to sink back to her feet.

"At least I'm not a—" Draco began, but was interrupted by, well, by the necklace.

Before their eyes, it began to unwind—twisting and elongating into a thin gold strand. Before either could move, the metal cord had wrapped itself around each of their wrists, shining brightly. Draco watched, mesmerized, but Ginny screamed and tried to claw the golden string away. It only tightened, cutting into her wrist and leaving a faint trace of bright red blood. The morphed necklace attached itself to each of them and glimmered brilliantly, then disappeared.

Ginny eyes found Draco's, and he noticed that her panic was thinly veiled. "What the hell was that?" she whispered.

Draco held her gaze for a moment before examining his wrist. There was no sign of the cursed jewelry, but he had no doubt that it was still there. "That—and I sincerely hope I am mistaken—must have belonged to Elladora Black. But how Daphne ended up with it, I have no idea."

"Elladora Black? Who is that, your great grand-mum?" Ginny asked warily, licking her lips and staring at the faint, fading pink line around her wrist.

"Great Aunt, three times over—yours too, if I'm not mistaken. But that's not the point. If I'm right, we have a problem," he muttered, slowly standing. "I need a headache potion."

He made his way out of the bedroom, checking his hair in the mirror by the door. Oh, yes, Dark objects be damned—Draco Malfoy would have perfect hair on his way to hell.

The redhead traipsed after him, and he noted that her heels no longer made their sharp, insistent clack on the hardwood floor. He led the way to his study and shot his wand at the fireplace, happy for the instant heat as the flames jumped to life. After all, silk pajamas were not exactly known for warmth.

Ginny wandered over in front of the fireplace and sat down gingerly on a leather wingback chair, staring at Draco with a slightly vacant and tired expression as he began to pull ancient looking tomes from the shelves behind his desk.

"We're in luck that I moved these from the Manor for the Mongolian project," he murmured and then glanced at her sharply. "You'll notice that I _do _work, Weasley."

She merely blinked at him for a long moment, then held up her still-marked wrist with a pointed stare.

"Words fail you when faced with my brilliance, hmm?" he drawled, flipping open_ Lore of the Noble and Most Ancient House. _He crinkled his nose at the dust that sprang up from the pages. Much of the book was handwritten, and the spidery nineteenth century handwriting did little to better the book's first impression.

He scanned the pages slowly, but the loopy script would have been difficult to make out with a full night's sleep behind him. As it were, the ink ran together in his eyes, and he had to resort to tracing the text with his finger. This felt incredibly childish, and therefore, extremely irritating.

The clock in the corner struck; it was now five in the goddamn morning, and he had much better things to do than read dirty manuscripts—like sleep.

"This would go faster if you'd help, you know," he muttered.

To his surprise, Ginny pulled herself out of the chair and came to stand by his side. She bent her head over the large book, her red locks falling around her face and hanging just inches above the page.

"What am I looking for?" she asked tiredly.

"Anything about Elladora or a cursed necklace, obviously," Draco snapped. She flipped her hair back over her shoulder to give him a look, and the light strands brushed against his bare chest, shooting tingles across his body.

Draco blanched. Not good.

"Here," she announced triumphantly, stabbing her finger into the page. "Elladora Black, sister of Phineas Black. Said to have beheaded her House Elves when they grew too old to serve—ew." She scrunched her nose and looked at him. "Sounds about right, for a Black."

He arched an eyebrow from her and gripped the book, skimming the page. "Elladora was jilted by Julian Yaxley in her youth and never married. Over the course of her life, she was believed to have developed a general hatred of 'happy endings.' Elladora was often quoted in her belief that marriage between lovers was a useless farce, and her letters reflected this bitter cynicism in her description of her prized collection of jewelry."

Draco glanced up at Ginny, who was staring at the page along with him, clearly mortified. He continued, "It is believed that Elladora designed curses for her entire cache of jewelry in order to prove that her cynicism of love was worthwhile. The _piece de resistance_ of this collection was a necklace designed to bind quarreling enemies in matrimony 'until death do they part.'"

The witch and wizard locked eyes over the top of the dusty book.

"Are you saying," Ginny began slowly, "that you and I are—married?"

Draco cocked his head at her. "It goes on about a golden necklace transfiguring into several powerful matrimonial binding spells, so—yes," he said dryly.

"What?" she shrieked, "I can't be married to you! What will they say at work? What will my mum do?" she said, eyes widening, "What will my brothers—oh Merlin—they'll kill me. They'll kill you!"

Draco arched an eyebrow. Lovely. He had been bound to … this.

She was still blathering on, her tone escalating to an unthinkable pitch as tears began to form in her eyes, and he did the first thing that made sense: he grabbed her.

Looking back, he decided that he fully intended to shake some sense into her, but instead he found himself pressing her head into his bare chest, holding her close, and altogether being very comforting to the woman. It was foreign, but he liked it enough to keep her there for a moment. Of course, he could be comforting if he chose to be. He was, after all, Draco Malfoy. He was also very probably losing his mind. His prowess at linear thought post two AM was incredibly compromised at half past five, and judging from the complete wreck that was crying quietly against his chest, he wasn't the only one.

So, throwing linear thought to the wind, he scooped the girl up and crossed the hall to the nearest guest bedroom. Dawn's faint pink was beginning to shade the sky, and he lay the exhausted spitfire down on the bed.

Something was poking him in the arm.

"Go 'way," Draco moaned, rolling over—and onto the floor. It was hardly a dignified way to begin one's day. Therefore, he would not begin it, he decided. The carpet was quite comfortable, really…

"Why are you in bed with me?" demanded a voice from above.

Draco's eyes shot open as the events of the night came flooding back, and he sat up quickly.

Ginevra Weasley sat in the dead center of the bed, completely disheveled. Her hair that framed her face was reminiscent of a wild halo, and her button-up had come completely untucked from her skirt, revealing creamy skin around her waist.

Why was he in bed with her? He couldn't remember falling asleep, but—well. Why not?

"We're married, aren't we?" he drawled. "To have and to hold, right?"

A pillow landed squarely on his face, obliterating his carefully calculated smirk.

"We might be married according to a binding spell, but that means nothing to me. I'm not really married to you, and I won't ever be," she spat.

Draco stood up and sauntered over to the mirror. His pants were all wrinkly, and his bedhead was no longer of the sexy variety. He could see her in the mirror, too. Her bedhead _was_ of the sexy variety…

"Those old matrimonial spells are strong, love," he said, adjusting his hair carefully. "I wouldn't be surprised if we can't be physically apart for long, or if we'll die should we not consummate it, or any of that rot." He gestured vaguely with his free hand.

He saw her mouth fall open behind him. "Consummate it?" she repeated slowly.

He grinned and turned to face her. "Yes, love. You see, when a man loves a woman—"

Another pillow hit him in the face. The witch had good aim, and a decent arm. She was probably excellent at Quidditch, he mused as the clock buzzed. It was nine in the—yes, still goddamned—morning.

Ginny jumped off the bed and adjusted her skirt, carefully tucking her shirt back into it and running fingers through her hair. "Well, we need to get rid of it," she announced primly. "I'm sure there is a counter-curse. I'll go report in to the Ministry—they'll be wondering where I've got to—and the department will get it sorted out." She laughed with false confidence (for Draco was the master of such things, and could easily spot them), heading toward the door.

Draco grabbed her arm. "You're not going anywhere," he informed her, levity gone from his voice. "Can you imagine the consequences of Apparition if the curse requires we stay in close proximity? I don't feel like dying today."

She whirled on him. "Let go of me," she spat. "I don't feel like being married today."

"Tea first."

She groaned. "You and your tea." But she followed him patiently to kitchen, where he put the kettle back on and waited for the comforting whistle to blow. This time she took a cup, too, and they sipped in silence for a moment.

"It was my first solo raid," she said quietly. "You guessed right."

His eyes shot up before he could stop them. It was rather unlike a Gryffindor to admit fault, however indirectly, and he watched as she scuffed her bare toe against the tiled kitchen floor.

She looked up at him as she took another sip, and their eyes met over the brim of her cup. Draco was struck by the easy vulnerability that lay among the brown specks in her eyes; it was as though the littlest Weasley (or was she a Malfoy now?) was asking for forgiveness. While he was certainly not about to give it to her, he realized that he was intrigued by the girl who could so boldly storm his flat at two in the morning, marry him at four, collapse in sobs at five, throw cushions at him at nine, and then expose a fear of failure at ten.

"We are going to get out of this mess, right?" she asked, a small, expectant smile gracing her lips. "You're staring."

"Am I?" he drawled, swirling his tea around in the cup.

He had hoped that sleep would take care of the temporary insanity he had felt earlier; however, he could think straight now, yet he still found the fiery girl a bit too … enticing. This was certainly the fault of the spell. Those spells had a nasty habit of messing with one's mind, of course. Didn't the Tibetan dervish tradition say just such a thing? Was it Tibet? Was it dervishes? Did it matter? No. She was staring at him again, curiosity now mingling in the complicated expression that was Ginny.

"Right," he announced, setting down his empty cup. "Let's go work out this spell."

They spent the next hour in the library, each poring over Draco's collection of books on centuries-old magic, gleaning what knowledge they could about binding charms. At one point, Ginny was quite sure that she'd figured out how to remove the curse, but the ensuing test led to their hands being tightly glued together for a solid ten minutes. Since Ginny wouldn't let him call his Father and he wouldn't let her call the Ministry, they were stuck.

How Draco despised puns.

He didn't despise the way she smelled, though. As he virtually held her for nearly a quarter of an hour, he couldn't help but notice that she smelled sweet, like strawberries, but with the subtlest hint of cinnamon spice. He was a little sorry when she came unstuck.

He watched her yawn as she studied another book. Her petite fingers brushed her hair back as she let out a protracted sigh and then gently rubbed her eyes as she turned her attention back to the book. She was sitting with her legs crossed under her, and she'd shoved her sleeves up to her elbows like a schoolgirl. Even though the clothes were the same, he recognized that she no longer was wearing her take-over-the-world outfit.

His eyes dropped back to his own book, and he breathed a wish for reason and impeccable style to return to his obviously bothered mind. Instead, a few words from the page jumped out at him: "bind quarrelling enemies."

Draco arched an eyebrow, momentarily glad that he hadn't lost another of his greatest traits—sheer genius.

"Ginevra Malfoy," he said loudly, grateful that the foreign name didn't trip over his tongue, "I think I'm in love with you."

Ginny looked up so quickly that she nearly fell backward off the chaise. "I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, I'm completely and utterly in love with you. Madly, truly, deeply in love. And you return my affections, do you not?" he drawled, smirking as he passed her the book and tapped the page. She read the words, but her face showed quite transparently that she thought him insane.

"You love me, don't you?" he repeated, tapping the phrase again, but she merely stared at him. "You love me much more than you would an enemy—an enemy that you despise completely?"

She bit her lip. "Er, Draco, I think that I better—"

Those lips. How he wanted to—and then it all came together. For a brief moment, he hated his great, great, great, great aunt.

But it only took that moment to seize Ginny Weasley and pull her close enough to touch his lips to hers, kissing her gently. To his surprise, she kissed him back, first shyly pressing against his lips, but then slowly opening them, inviting him in. He seized her head in his hands, tangling his fingers in the curly red hair that had distracted him all morning. He lost himself in her as she met him evenly, exploring his mouth with her sweet tongue and running her nails down his neck and back (not wearing a shirt had its advantages).

Ginny broke the kiss. She was breathing heavily, and as she licked her lips, he decided that kissing them again would be a good idea. So he did. He was, after all, also excellent at kissing. This time, her hands tangled in his hair as he pushed her back onto the chaise, gently pressing her into the soft cushion with his weight. He felt as if time were frozen, as if the world had stopped spinning, as if—

A shock of white light sent them both flying to the floor, and instead of tasting Ginny's sweet mouth, he again tasted raw magic. Ginny sat up first this time, watching her wrist with a stunned expression.

The golden chain between them was quickly loosening, shrinking back on itself and wrapping around and around until it formed the same gaudy piece of jewelry that Draco had yanked out of his sock drawer.

Ginny slipped her wand out and carefully levitated the piece, casting an Impermeable Bubble charm around it.

"Well," she said, turning to Draco.

"Well," he replied.

She looked down and noticed that he'd gotten a bit farther in unbuttoning her top than she'd realized. She slowly began to attend to slipping the small discs through the eyes as he cleared his throat.

"Elladora didn't hate fairy tales. She hated ruined fairy tales," he started, attempting to explain.

She met his eyes evenly, and his chest tightened ever so slightly when he realized that he could not identify the emotions that before had been so easy to see. "Love is easily lost," she said quietly. "Enmity, not so much."

She looked awkwardly down at her bare toes, and his gaze slipped out the window for a long moment.

"Well, Draco, I guess I'll be going," she said, her tone once again business-like. She stood and waved her wand, sending the safely ensconced necklace toward the door. "I'm certain I can come up with a satisfactory excuse for my lengthy absence, if you'll be so good as to sign this over without complaint." She handed him a blank form, and with a quill from his desk, he initialed it with a flourish as the clock struck half past eleven.

He watched as she summoned her shoes, hoping his odd state of mind was naught but the residual effect of the spell. Surely he'd be able to get her hair, her lips, and her eyes out of his mind so he could focus on more important things—like the vague memory that the contents of his closet were in a heap on the floor.

Ginny walked to the door, and he followed her—this time holding the door as she guided the Dark object that was deemed dangerous to the Wizarding into the hall.

"Thank you, Draco," she said, turning. Her eyes shone full of the take-over-the-world pride from a job well-done, but there was a glimmer of candor there as well, and he felt strangely relieved.

"Good to be married to you, Miss Weasley," he said with a smirk.

She gave him a mischievous half smile. "Right. You too."

"Perhaps we should do it again sometime," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe in his practiced way. It did show off his impeccable abs so advantageously.

Ginny arched her eyebrow. "Or we could just do dinner. I'm free tonight." She smirked. "Oh, and Draco?" she called, winking as she stepped into the lift. "You look _dreadfully_ silly when you stand like that."

The lift closed with a gentle ding, but Draco stood agape in the doorway for a full minute before turning on his heel and shutting the door.

It was approaching noon, _finally_, and he had a dinner date to prepare for.

The End

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If you like it, do drop me a review. Consider it a donation to my desperate muse, since unlike JKR, I'm certainly not being paid to write. ^_^

If you're interested in participating in a Draco/Ginny fanfic exchange, the next one is beginning this month. PM me or visit The DG Forum for more information - there is a link in my profile.

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**MemoriesFade's Prompt**

**Basic outline:** Draco and Ginny are forced to marry after unintentionally activating a curse because of a fight they have.

**Must haves:** I'd like it to have a good balance of drama and humor.

**No-no's:** No pregnancy or abuse.

**Rating range:** T-NC 17

**Bonus points:** A little bit of smut...not required but it certainly would make my day.


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